Falling for you
by Whil-o-whisp
Summary: hahahaha, remade. hope you like. Kenny uses alot of naughty words... A four day week with Kenny in which he finds out something interesting about himself concerning our favorite French Mercenary. KennyxChristophe
1. Introduction

**Falling for you: Chapter 1: Introduction**

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: south Park KennyxZeMole (christophe)

Word count: 1,093 for this chapter

A/n: **_ORIGINAL 3/22/2009_**: Yeah, I pair them sometimes. This is another one of those late night stories that I really need to stop because they keep me up LAWLAWLAWL idk. Well, enjoy. Kenny has a dirty mouth.

**_NEW 7/1/2009:_** This is a remake of the original FALLING FOR YOU, thusly, same story, better written. I changed it from third person to first person Kenny's point of view, and also, its now five chapters long (including introduction, excluding the original). It's still Kenny and Christophe, still has the same plot, just, better. Kenny has an even dirtier mouth now, lol. The original is at the end of the five chapters, i am leaving it as is.**_ I hope you enjoy this!!!!_**

**_Disclaimer: _**hahahahahahahah, hahahahahahahaaaaaaaaahahahaha, you really thought I was pretending to own this? hahahaha

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High school bores the shit out of me, truthfully. It's all girls and gossip and academics. It sucks major fucking butt, nothing fun ever happens. No zombies or crap people attacks, it's nothing like south Park Elementary. Fuck, we aren't even in South Park anymore. Shitty ass town like that with a high school? As if. Nope, we're at the enthralling, ever so prestigious mind control camp innocently named NORTH Park High. Now, we south parkers and the north parkers, we don't like each other much. Well, most of us. The ones that were born here anyway, can't say much for foreign exchange students from hell or British pansies from Yardale.

The hatred between us… Parkers or whatever has no meaning, or reason, and it's only made worse by the most recent switch. You see, we are the unlucky ones, my class and I; we got fucked by the school system, again. We're the test subjects, this year our test, or as Kyle calls it 'The Screw up', though, I'm more inclined to Cartman's name for it, 'The cluster fuck to North Park'

Before the big cluster fuck to North Park, the middle school students who graduated on and actually went to High school were shipped off to a slightly nicer, less prestigious mind control camp called Middle High School (Okay kids, wrap your minds around this one. It's a High school, called Middle. Weird, huh?). However, our darling mayor in all her lesbian wisdom decided the price for sending us brats all the way over to the next town over cost way too much and lumped us in with the retard school.

Well, we're still together though, our gang as we aptly call it. All four of us, occasionally three when Cartman decides to start his own group. He's still a fat ass. Tall, but still fat. He hasn't changed a lot, still hates Jews, poor people and hippies. He still thinks 9/11 was a conspiracy by republicans, and he still hates Kyle. I think the feeling's mutual. Kyle's changed a bit, not much though. He straightens his hair now, something Cartman delights in making fun of him about. I think it's stupid, he looks good with his hair straightened so he couldn't really make fun of him.

Okay, so there's the girly aspect, but whatever. Kyle's kind of still Jewish, but not really. Just in name. He needs something to put down on the surveys. He finally took Cartman's advice and told his mom to go fuck herself, that, I'm proud he did, but he's still frightened of her. Otherwise, he's the same. Still hates Cartman, still tries to make sure I eat on a daily basis (I love him sometimes), and he's still the smartest person in school. Of course, he's started slacking off, but who doesn't in high school?

People try to beat him up sometimes, key phrase being try. Hard to beat up Kyle Broflovski when his 'super best friend' crush is the quarterback. Stan's changed a bit, not much. He's tanner now, not that pale ass kid who complained about stupid people (he still has no respect for adults), and wittier. Better at sports too, though, I thought this was impossible at one point, he carried the team back in South Park. He still has a crush on Wendy Test-a-tit though, bitch a woman she is, lucky she's a lesbian now. Always knew Bebe would bring her round sooner or later.

They're kind of fun to watch. Stan and Kyle, not Bebe and Test-a-tit, though they're pretty fun too. Kyle's pretty obvious and Stan's pretty oblivious. Even Butters knows the Jew's got the hotts for Stan. Too bad all of Stan's brains are spent on school work. Irony, huh. Oh, Stan's friends with one of the Goth kids now, well, sort of. The tiny one and him have the same creative writing class, go figure. Kids like six years younger than us and already in high school. The next Kyle or Ike Broflovski. Ike's in that class too I think.

Nothing's changed. I still die about once a week, twice if Damien's feeling a bit lonely. He goes to the high school too, but only twice a week, sometimes on Wednesdays when Satan's in a good mood. Ever since the bad break up, Satan's been a bit more bipolar. Other than that, my deaths are still accidents, if you can call the North Parkers antics accidents. Just a month ago they threw a javelin at me while I was waiting for Stan's football practice to be over to get a ride home. Uncanny aim those track guys, impaled me right through my brain.

Ever since they found out my immortal status, they'd taken great delight in killing me on bad days and not getting in trouble. They call most of their antics freak accidents, like when the satellite fell on my head back in the third grade and I turned into a zombie and infected everybody. I miss that crap, torturing Tweek, sneaking out and TP'ing people's houses, or even when we used Kyle's dead grandma to scare the sixth graders, which didn't work, but it was still fun. Got to see my favorite band in concert so it wasn't all wasted.

Strangely enough, though I'll never tell him this, (he'd probably call me a fag), I miss Mr./Mrs. Garrison sometimes too. Sure he was a retard fucker, but there was just something so amusing about him. First he's straight, then he's gay, then he was a transsexual woman, who is straight, then he was a lesbian, and then he wanted his penis back and became a man again. What's not to love about that fucker? Seriously! Well, other than his puppet, or… puppets. Mr. Hat is a fucking devil rapist, I swear. Mr. Garrison teaches at the middle school now, trying his damnedest not to get transferred to North Park with Ms. Victoria. I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian too.

No, not much has changed, except schools. The Goths still hang out and smoke behind the dumpsters all day, every day, though sometimes the red one and the curly one would disappear for a while (probably to go fuck in whatever bathroom's deserted at the time), Craig and his gang still hate Cartman, Tweek's still a spastic dork and addicted to coffee, Token's still rich, Gregory's still an asshole, Kyle's still smart, Stan's still a jock, Cartman's still a dick, and I'm still Poor. Nothing had changed, and it was all rather boring.

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**_A/N: KEEP READING! THERE ARE FOUR MORE CHAPTERS!_**

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	2. Monday

**_Falling for you: chapter 2: Monday_**

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: South park KennyxZeMole (christophe)

Word count: 1,842 for this chapter

A/n: **_ORIGINAL 3/22/2009: _**Yeah, I pair them sometimes. This is another one of those late nght stories I really need to stop because they keep me up LAWLAWLAWl idk. Well, enjoy. Kenny has a dirty mouth.

**_NEW 7/1/2009: _**This is a remake of the original FALLING FOR YOU, thusly, same story, better written. I changed it from third person to first person kenny's point of view, and also, it's now five chapter's long. It's still Kenny and Christophe, still has the same plot, just better. Kenny has an even dirtier mouth now, lol. The original is at the end of the five chapters, i am leaving it as is. **_I hope you enjoy this!!!!_**

**_Disclaimer: _**Why am I even doing this? If trey and matt really want to sue me, they'll do it. this doesn't mean freaking diddly shit in retrospect.

* * *

I swear high school was created just to cause headaches. Locker doors slamming, girls giggling, slackers complaining. Normal Monday morning now for the… "Move the fuck out of the way, Dip stick." Ah, right on time. Baseball nerds numbered two through five all slammed their way by, pushing me against the lockers. It hurt, but I find their predictable nature amusing. Predictability for the unpredictable, or whatever Kyle called it.

The whole school was unbearably predictable. Slackers always faked sick on Mondays (but doesn't that make Tuesdays suck?), cheerleaders always ostracized the dorky, the science hallway always smells like death, Mr. Reevus always had a bag full of snickers to munch on because he was hypoglycemic or whatever. Everything is so fucking predictable!

"Ey! Kahl!" Cartman is STILL a nasally bastard with an undefinable accent (Which I think is inherent; nobody talks like that, nobody), even after eight years. Kyle sighed, nodding to me in Greeting while Fat Bastard ignored me. I don't mind, ignored means not bothered by fat bastard, so really, why should I care? Also means I can steal from him without being noticed. I have no idea why, but Cartman never noticed when I stole his shit. Probably because his mom buys him whatever he wants anyway. Lucky asshole. "Will you do mah homework for meh?" Fail, and the answer to the question is…?

"NO, you fucking fat ass." If you didn't guess that, then you fail, go sit in the fail corner and get punted. "You're a freaking retard." Kyle muttered and Stan laughed, standing in his place at Kyle's side, near, but not quite touching him. Kyle almost smiled, but caught himself, waiting for Cartman's rant. Stan would laugh at that too. He laughed whether Cartman was making fun of Kyle, or Kyle was making fun of Cartman. I stopped finding most of that funny ages ago, (though watching Cartman get his sorry ass told by a Jew half his size and a quarter his weight always amuses me, even if it was predictable.)

"SHUT UP JEW BOY!" Did he really have to scream? Oh, and that's predictable. Cartman scrunched up his face and his voice got higher, just like it did back in elementary school when he got upset. He was such a girl. When oh when would my group decide we were all fags and just give up the charade. Well, not fags, per se, I'm Bi and so is Kyle so, I guess Cartman would be the only Fag. Haha, Cartman. Haha. Stan's probably Bi too now that I think about it.

There goes Pip, talking and skipping with his Swedish girlfriend. Swedish people make good porn stars apparently, especially Swedish girls. Must be the blonde aspect. I always preferred brunettes, though I take what I get. Wendy's flirting with Bebe, they'd probably make a good porno, if Wendy ever shut up. When did I get stuck on the porno subject? Oh well. There goes Craig. He's gay, by the way. He's got the hots for Tweek, I'm sure of it. Just look at him, teasing him with Clyde and Token. Poor Tweek. People are so cruel about his coffee thermos. Can't say I blame them, stealing it's rather fun. Can't see what Craig does, the kid's a twitching, shouting, thin as a rail, coffee addicted mess. Must be the blonde thing.

Timmy and Jimmy are being, well, Timmy and Jimmy. And there goes Damien, in all his suddenly Baritone, son of the anti-christ, gothic glory, hell dog in his wake. Satan doesn't trust him up here alone, so, thus, the hell dog. His name is Fabian, and he loves to bite fingers, but he never once bit mine off. Cute dog, when he's happy.

No, nothing unpredictable happens here, but that's sort of all right, I mean, if it wasn't so boring it would be.

Lunch is going predictably, everybody clustering into their little groups for daily slop not fit for the poor chickens on the farm in south park. I'm currently trying to decide between going and sitting with Kyle and them to get made fun of by fat bastard, or sitting outside and get glared at by the Goth. Well, no brainer choice. Goths are quiet and I'd get to smoke, (till some Dudley do right decides to 'save my lunges from cancer' and tell a teacher). And maybe Damien could convince the Goths to leave me alone.

He joined them in Middle school, Damien did. Once they found out he was the Anti-Christ's son, they decided to recruit. I mean, that was the proverbial feather in their cap. They refused to conform so they sat with the devil's son. How bad ass can a Goth get? I kind of knew it'd happen sooner or later (Henrietta had a crush on him before she knew about his daddy dearest).

Lo and Behold, surprise, surprise, something unpredictable. Outside, in the dim sunlight filtering through the leaves in some picturesque rendition of Lord of the Rings, sat Christophe Mollier, The Mole himself. Now, don't get me wrong, when The Mole was actually here, at school, he sat outside, but him actually BEING here is a surprise in and of it's self. Christophe Mollier was a Mercenary by trade, so ninety nine times out of a hundred, he's out on some secret James Bond mission (probably with a bit more blood and decapitation), or sleeping a mission off.

So, seeing Christophe was a nice change (I can't explain it but I feel as if I have some kind of bond with the Fruity French man), and, well, just seeing him was nice in General. He really had to work a lot to get those kind of muscles, not overdone though. Never overdone. Seemed to be the French man's motto, 'do only the minimum to get it done'. Or maybe his was that in french. Who knows. He still wears mostly black, shovel on his back, and ciggey's in his pocket (one of them, he had, what, at least twelve when he wore Cargo's).

He's sitting in my spot though.

I strode by (yes, strode), and nodded to Damien as he looked up from a little black notebook that the curly haired goth (Nickalus? Something like that) wrote in. The other goth who actually ate lunch here, the red haired one, was seated in Curly's lap, back against his chest and their legs entertwined. They were almost cute in a demented kind of Gothic way. I smiled, blowing a kiss towards Red, which got a tightened grip on his boyfriend and a glare from Curly (mission accomplished), and Red just gave me the bird in a fashion Craig just might have envied. Typical. They hate me even when I'm not pretending to like Red, (not that he's not cute and all, I just, kind of don't like Goths. Not to say he isn't fuckable or nothing, just not my type).

Christophe doesn't even look up when I sit down, which kind of annoys but whatever. He just pulls his foreign cigarette from those pink lips (have I mentioned I like guys? And Brunettes? Well, yeah, I do.) and blowing a soft cloud towards the sky. One of the things I just adore about Christophe is that when he's out here, smoking or reading or whatever Christophe really feels like doing, not a single Dudley do right came anywhere near him.

I wouldn't either if I were them. He'd threatened every single do gooder with his shovel of epic pain so, yeah, nobody wanted to try and save his sorry soul from cancer. Heck, one poor English teacher was filing for a law suit (not that she'd win, Gregory paid for that his precious Merc's Lawyer, and fuck it, his family's near as rich as Token, and about nine times more influential.) on the teenager for threatening assault with a deadly weapon (could a Shovel really be considered a deadly weapon? I mean, when Christophe's got it, sure, but really? I heard somewhere that feet can be considered deadly weapons…).

I seriously doubt it's gonna fly, but I'd love to be in that courtroom when she breaks down in tears because of some stupid threat. Okay, so I'm biased, but it's funny. There are a million and one things that could happen to you that are worse than getting threatened by Christophe, Trust me, I've had about a hundred and something happen to me. Fuck, when you die about a hundred times, threats and attempts really don't mean a flying fuck anymore.

Including cancer. I pull out the worn Camel cigarettes box I stole from Mommy Dearest's purse this morning, puling my cigarette out and lighting up. Oh the wonders of nicotine, flooding every pore and filling two lunges. When you come back to life everytime, Trachea and Lunge Cancer don't mean shit to you, trust me. The smoking thing came pretty naturally for me, mostly from mom. She started smoking because of stress when I entered middle school, and I get the profits because most of the time she's five fourths drunk by the time I get home and I can steal them without her ever missing them.

It was pretty quiet in the courtyard, save Gothic music, smoking and Christophe mumbling in French and turning pages. I watched Christophe (yeah, don't look at me that way, he's pretty good looking, you'd watch him too), the way his eyes scanned the page, mumbling words or the crows feet at the edges of his eyes just deepened when he blinked. He's actually kind of nice to look at when you get past the fruity accent or paranoia. Fuck he's paranoid, nearly as bad as Tweek, but it's a bit more, um, tolerable from Christophe (not just cus I have a thing for brunettes), because he lives the way he does. Tweek's just an ADHD caffeine addict.

Okay, I'm tired of being ignored. I blew smoke towards the boy, careful to suck about half of it back in. I didn't particularly want to die Monday afternoon just because I don't like being ignored. Those big, Chocolate brown eyes look up at me, and, being the shit for brains person I am, I wiggle my eyebrows, like they do in those movies. I'm not afraid of Christophe, even though he could probably kill me just as soon as he looked at me, but hey, can't kill me permanently.

Christophe raised an eyebrow, before snorting softly, muttering in French something that sounded like an insult, but I can't be sure, before looking back at the book. He carefully shifted his feet, pushing mine away from him and I smile, putting the cigarette back between my lips to watch him read. Smoke trickled towards the sky from Christophe's lips. I could always bother him right? A bit of danger in my life might do me good. Can't do much to me anyway. Besides, he's rather, how do I put this, Unpredictable.

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A/n: READ ON! THREE MORE CHAPTERS TO GO! Four if you want to read the original, but I don't reccomend it.


	3. Tuesday

**__**

Falling for you: Chapter 3: Tuesday

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: South Park KennyxZeMole (christophe)

word count: 1,010 (one zero one zero... lol)

A/n: **_ORIGINAL 3/22/2009: _**Yeah, I pair them sometimes. This is another one of those late night stories that I really need to stop because they keep me up LAWLAWLAWl idk. Well, enjoy. Kenny has a dirty Mouth.

**_NEW 7/1/2009: _**This is a remake of the original FALLING FOR YOU, thusly, same story, better written. I changed it from third person to first person Kenny's point of view, and also, it's now five chapters long. It's still Kenny and Christophe, still has the same plot, just, better. Kenny has an even dirtier mouth now, lol. The original is at the end of the five chapters, i am leaving it as is. **_I hope you enjoy this!!!!_**

**_Disclaimer:_** Think about it...

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"Christophe." Tuesday morning and already cheeky. Yep, I've still got it. I lean against Christophe's neighboring locker, orange parka (yes, I still have that ratty old orange parka, Im poor and can't get a new one, so fucking deal with it) near zipped up, my hood tickling my face. I can't say I didn't feeling even a big mockingly hurt when Christophe didn't even look at me, slamming the locker close to my ear. God damn that hurt, and the ringing didn't go away for hours. I mouthed many a curse as he scooped up his backpack, his shovel strapped to his back.

"McCormick." Stupid fruity accent still intact, I see. I follow him towards the court yard, boxing one of my ears experimentally. Nope, the ringing was still there.

"Skipping First period, I see?" Oh, how I love to see him annoyed. I grin from ear to ear as he throws a glare at me over my shoulder. Okay, so maybe being the victim of an unexplained 'freak' accident including a French man and a shovel is in my rather near future but hey, I'm feeling bold today.

Christophe snapped at me, "You as well," as he exited the main building, walking into yesterday's courtyard. Nickalus (curly haired goth kid) and the little one were already sitting next to the back door, smoking up a storm which really couldn't be healthy for the little guy's lunges, but hey, smoking from kindergarten never was. Christophe glared at them. Hadn't they tried to recruit him way back in seventh grade? Something about telling of Cartman about how much Cartman didn't understand about life had caught their attention or something. That didn't last long. Apparently giving the mouth of the group a scar across his shoulder was just the way to shut them up. Red had just annoyed Christophe a touch too much, though, that didn't take long. I almost feel bad for the annoying snot. Almost. It's still kind of funny. "What zhe fuck ahr you laughing about?" Christophe is suddenly way too far away from me, throwing his bag onto the bench and glaring in my direction.

Had he always been that much taller than I am? I mean, yeah, sure he couldn't have been in the third grade, we were all the same height back then, but wow. I'm not very observant apparently if four or five inches goes unnoticed. Fuck and I thought I was tall. "Not you, god, that'd be suicide." He mumles something along the lines of not mentioning that fucker in his presence as he pulls out a box of cigs, tapping the edge against the table in true mercenary style to retrieve the cancerous prize and sitting down.

Christophe shook his head, reaching into a different pocket to retrieve a lighter (how many pockets did he have? And what the fuck did they hold?). He cupped his hand around the tip of his cig as I sat down, completely ignoring me to try to light his precious cig. Try being the key term here. The lighter sputtered and flizzled before flickering out. "Sheet." He cursed, pocketing the shitty bic lighter. Maybe my own would suffice.

The flicker of a lighter brought his eyes to my hands, the light catching in those eyes as he looked up at me. I held it out to him, lit and waiting. Of course, paranoia tried to win out, he gave me a suspicious look. I just thrust it a bit closer to him, humming in question. If he didn't want it, and could really read without smoking then I'd take it back. He finally leaned forward, taking hold of my wrist and lighting the tip of his cigarette, taking a deep appreciative breath, his eyes shuttering closed.

It was surprising. I mean, very. Damn his fingers were soft for a merc's, I mean, still caloused, but warm and soft and damn I have a thing for brunettes. He isn't Damien warm, he's just, like, flames of hell warm, but he's got this kind of, as corny as it sounds, sitting by the hearth warm, welcoming. Besides all of that, it's pretty surprising to even touch Christophe, skin to skin.

Christophe was one of those people who hates people. Like, fucking hates humanity and wishes to watch it burn people. Christophe has had a general hate for humanity since he was born for all I know or care, and physical contact was one of the reasons why. Hell, he didn't even kill (or so I'd heard) with his hands. He used his shovel, and that was why the edge was stained so dark red it was almost black (again, so I had heard). Christophe actually initiating physical, skin to skin, human contact, (cus Christophe's gloves ad long since been fingerless), was completely unheard of, surprising, unpredictable. Not unwelcome though, don't get me wrong. Skin to skin is like, finding out the mercenary's human, which is really nice. Really, endearing you know?

I have to say, I was a little disappointed when he let go and leaned away. My hand kind of tingled, like, when you touched something a bit too hot and was suddenly deprived of it right after you get used to it. He leaned back and blew the smoke straight up, obscuring his eyes for a little big before he pulled out his book and began to read. I simply watched, enthralled by new discoveries.

For one, I think I kind of like how fire flickers in Christophe's eyes, kind of like a pyro's would usually in those movies. Another, I really wanted to touch Christophe again, just to see if could get that deprived of warmth feeling again just from stopping (I don't like it but I want to know if it was a one time thing, ya know?). And the last thing I think I sort of realized was that, god damnit, I just might be falling for him. And that was just a little bit scary.

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A/n: READ ON! TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO! Three if you want to read the original, I wouldn't reccomend that...


	4. Wednesday

**_Falling for you: Chapter 4: wednesday_**

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: south park KennyxZeMole (christophe)

word count: 1,395 for this chapter

A/n: **_ORIGINAL 3/22/2009: _**Yeah, I pair them sometimes. this is another one of those late night stories I really need to stop because they keep me up LAWLAWLAWL idk. Well, enjoy. Kenny has a dirty mouth.

**_NEW 7/1/2009: _**This is a remake of the original FALLING FOR YOU, thusly, same story, better written. I changed it from third person to first person kenny's point of view, and also, it's now five chapters long. It's still Kenny and Christophe, still has the same plot, just better. Kenny has an even dirtier mouth now, lol.. The original is at the end of the five chapters, I am leaving it as is. **_I hope you enjoy this!!!!_**

* * *

Wednesdays are almost as bad as Mondays. I mean, they're right smack dab in the middle of the god damn week and we still have two more fucking days to go. Can't say I hate them more than Monday's though. Mondays are horrible. At least I haven't died yet. "Ouch!" Strike that. I just might have.

"Somezhing got your tongue, McCormick?" God damn fruity French men. He just had to go and thump me or whatever its called (so being thumped sort of felt like being clubbed, ignore me, I've died a few too many times). How'd he sneak up on me anyway? God Damn French Mercenary. If only he could hear my thoughts, he'd have a bitch fit. Any mentionings of god sets him off on some sort of rant. Usually about how he sucks butt, which I agree with but, at least I'm quiet about my opinion. "McCormick…" He snaps infront of my face a couple times, pulling my attention back to walking just in time to slam into a wall.

Fuck that hurt. "Could have warned me…" I grumbled and, what was that? Was that a laugh? Oh, please do it again. Please? Oh well. Waste not want not. "Was that a laugh Christophe?" He snorted, walking towards the Courtyard. I followed, continuing to tease. "I didn't think you could laugh." He scoffed, tossing his back pack down onto the bench in a huff. Really, I don't think it's smart to make fun of him, but I just had to. I love that laugh.

He pulls out a cigarette, pulling out a brand new lighter, and I have to say I'm a bit disappointed. He pulls out a cigarette and starts to light up, but I interrupt him. "Bum a smoke?" He looks up, almost surprised. He blinks, waiting for me to repeat what I'd said. It was kind of cute, the clueless look in his eyes. "Can. I. Bum. A smoke?" He rolled his eyes, taking the cigarette from between his lips and offering it to me. I blinked, taking the cigarette and placing it lightly between my lips. It was slightly damp and smelled a bit like dirt and something else. Christophe just took out another one.

Okay, so it was indirect kissing, but still, fifteen year old boy, I'm going to let my mind wander. I pulled out my lighter, lighting the tip and watching Christophe do the same. I have to say, Christophe has good taste in cigarettes. "So, skipping again?" I ask, not quite expecting him to answer as he pulls out a novel I couldn't quite read the title of. He looked up, giving me a suspicious look.

"Non. Zhis is my free period." He actually answered. Wow. Wonders never cease. I hummed, watching him open his book and try to find his place. I knew he wasn't reading. Christophe has this sort of adorable habit of mumbling what he's reading in French, even if it was an American novel. Not that he read them often. Christophe happened to like reading in French a lot more than reading in English. So much so that a book we had to read in English last semester, Christophe had just bought a French Copy so he wouldn't have to internally translate it.

Emilie Autumn (a seemingly new favorite of the goths) filtered through the soft noise of March in North Park, coupled with soft breaths and page turns as Red put his Magnavox boom box against the wall, sitting down with a huff. He was always in a bad mood, but especially so if he was the first to get there. Something about being first just bothered him. Oh well, better things to focus on. Like big brown eyes.

"Whatcha reading?" He looked up again, annoyed a bit at my interruptions. "Hm?" I half expected a snotty comment. He was sure known for them, as well as dismantling and vandalizing school property. I remember one time during a mandatory school assembly (that thankfully got me out of a test), I noticed Christophe across the aisle taking apart the half desk and using a screwdriver (which is one of my favorite tools, by the way, and I dare you to guess why) to carve into the desk. In the course of a half hour, he'd near broken the seat infront of him (unfortunately empty), marked up the back of seat infront of him, dismantled the half desk, and carved something in French into it. The memory just made me smile.

Nobody even dared accuse Christophe, who, at the time, had gotten the scary habit of dragging his shovel when he was aggravated, an almost horror movie like habit, so the School decided to blame Butters. Not that anybody cared. Nobody likes Butters. Kid's sweet as can be, so I almost felt bad for him. Almost. But he was just too stupid. Oh well.

Christophe raised the book to show me the cover, and to my surprise, it was Bram stoker's Dracula. He gave me a dull look, as if just expecting me to make a snide comment about his book choice. Who am I to disappoint? "Didn't think you were one for gothic fiction. Thought you didn't like Goths." He seemed a bit insulted for a moment before simply dog earring the page he was on (a habit I find really, really annoying, but, one habit out of a hundred is okay. I can deal with that).

"Non. I do not 'ate Gohz." I like how he says Goth… Kind of sounds like Gauze… Hehe. "I merely 'ate zheir beetching abou' zhings zhey can change, an refusing to change zhem." He's actually giving me his full attention, resting his cheek against a fist, his elbow on the table. "Zhen zhey also beetch about zhings zhey cannot possibly change, an expect zhem to change for zheir will." I blink. He's pretty blunt for being French. "Why zhe sudden interest in my littérature preferences, Rat?" Ah yes, my nickname.

Ever since sixth grade when we had our first class together, Christophe has called me any combination of the word Rat, because I'm kind of tiny and he's convinced I'd probably eat anything (which is pretty true, but that's beside the point). I usually come back with some lame come back having to do with him being a 'fruity Frenchman' because I can never keep his nickname straight.

He waits for my comment, but when it doesn't come, he picks up his book again, opening to the dog eared page and unfolding the edge, smoothing it out (at least he doesn't leave it dog eared). He shifts to avoid the beams of occasional sunlight and starts to read, blinking hard to adjust his eyes, the crows feet deepening slightly before smoothing out. I smiled, blowing smoke towards him, this time with no regard for what he might do. Christophe closed his eyes, turning away from the burning smoke.

"cus I think I may be falling for you Frency." I only meant it in jest, because, really, I knew he'd never accept any advance I made and I'm pretty sure that little stunt was going to cost me my life for today, but the shovel never came. He gave me a dry look, pulling his cigarette from his lips and blew a lunge full of smoke into my face, stinging my eyes and making me cough. Turnabout's fair play I guess.

Before I could clear my vision (and my vault of curse words), Christophe was already half way back to school, the bell just about to ring. When had time gotten away from us? I blinked at his back, marveling. Why the fuck I wasn't dead yet was beyond me. Surely Christophe would have killed me for that little stunt, but no, he'd just done it right back. I grinned, taking a drag off Christophe's cigarette.

Maybe I really am falling for him.

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A/n: READ ON! ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO! two if you want to read the original, but I don't recomend it...


	5. Thursday

**_Falling for you: Chapter 5: Thursday_**

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: south Park KennyxZeMole (christophe)

Word Count: 863

A/n: **_ORIGINAL 3/22/2009: _**Yeah, I pair them sometimes. This is another one of those late night stories I really need to stop because they keep me up LAWLAWLAWL idk. well, enjoy. Kenny has a dirty mouth.

**_NEW 7/1/2009: _**This is a remake of the original FALLING FOR YOU, thusly, same story, better written. I changed it from third person to first person Kenny's point of view, and also, it's now five chapters long. It's still Kenny and Christophe, still has the same plot, just better. Kenny has an even dirtier mouth, lol...The original is at the end of the five chapters, I am leaving it as is. **_I hope you enjoy this!!!!_**

**_Disclaimer: _**You would be a tea tray in the sky if i owned the world, are you a tea tray in the sky...?

* * *

Fucking hell that hurt. The world was turning just a tad bit red around me as the cut on my forehead seeped blood down into my eyes. It stung, but I don't care. I just wanted it to end. My nose was filled with the coppery smell of the blood from my forehead which dribbled down my cheek and chin. Leave it to North Park to fuck up a good week. Tomorrow I'd have gotten the day off, it was a holiday. I have next period off, the last period of the day, and they decide to fuck my day up.

I kicked out blindly, hitting something soft as my arms were grabbed and I was thrown to the ground. They were not happy. Fuck. I curled into fetal position, waiting for them to get bored or death to come. I just wanted this to end. Just because I've died a million times doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt to get the ever living shit beaten out of me. And the sad thing is, nobody will care. Nobody ever does.

"C'mon Kenny! Fight back!" I sort of wish they'd call me by my last name, but then again I wish they'd just forget I existed and leave me alone. They kick at my shins and feet, and I just let it happen. It wasn't like I'm not used to getting beaten up, I mean, I'm just that kind of person. Either ignored or hated, but fuck it all, I've been having a pretty good week. Christophe's actually sort of paid attention to me these past four days; even let me bother him and these guys just decide to rear up their ugly mugs. Well, if they were determined to beat the ever-living daylights out of me, I can't do much to stop them.

Maybe Satan'll be in a good mood if I die, he's got a soft spot for me you know? Ever since I helped him with his abusive boyfriend problem, he's been really nice to me. Damien's at Satan's today, maybe we can hang out or something. Damien has great taste in music, maybe he'll let me borrow some cd's if he's in a good mood. And then maybe I'd come back around dinner time, maybe mooch off of Kyle or Stan. Their parents like feeding me.

My ears rang loudly as metal hit metal with a resounding clang. Everything stopped and I cracked open an eye I hadn't realized I'd closed. "You beetches better move before I looze my tempuh." French Accent? Has to be Christophe. All three of my bullies scrambled away, stumbling over each other. I look up into big chocolate brown eyes which stare right back, but without anger, or irritation or anything else. It's almost affection, maybe pity? I don't care.

"That hurt my ears." I complained, pouting and he shrugged, letting his shovel drop from where it had lodged itself into the metal of a poor unsuspecting locker. I sat against the locker, feeling blood trickle into my jacket and hair and I know I must look like hell. Christophe takes a drag off his cigarette, watching me as I swipe at the cut on my forehead. The locker's smeared with blood, but I'm not concerned. I have other, more pressing matters. "Why'd you do that?" I ask curiously.

"I know what Deaz feels like." I can't help but stare, and laugh. Christophe doesn't look insulted, just, confused as I stare up at him, because really, I must look so strange, bloody and bruised and smiling and laughing up at a boy I think I just might have fallen for. "What?" He asks and my smile just spreads. I shake my head at him and he snorts, snubbing out his cigarette on the locker and waiting for an answer.

"I think I may be falling for you, Christophe Mollier." And he laughed. Christophe laughed and I can't say I felt insulted. It was a warm, shy laugh, that he hid behind a hand, turning his face away. "It seems zhe blows to your 'ead may 'ave scramble' your brains." Christophe had a small, just ever so tiny smile on his face as he reached down to help me up, I grab him, and he ignores the blood on my palm and fingers. I stood and wrapped my arms around his chest, burying my still bloody face into his shirt. I smile absorbing the warmth that is Christophe, because really, this feels nice, and right and just good. He smells like leather, and dirt and his cigarettes and I just breath deep.

He awkwardly holds his arms to the side, not quite knowing whatto do with them before placing them tentatively on my back, resting his cheek in my blonde hair and he heats up a bit. I just take an even deeper breath, chuckling softly and tightening my grip. So, maybe Christophe'll never believe me, and maybe I'm being awkward and getting his shirt bloody, but I don't see him complaining. I'm going to savor this while it lasts, because really, I've fallen for him.

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A/n: THIS IS THE END! Well, sort of, if you want to read the last chapter, which is the original Falling for you, go ahead.


	6. ORIGINAL FALLING FOR YOU

High school bored the shit out of him, truthfully. It was all gossip and academics. There was nothing substantial. Nothing like Elementary school in South Park. Hell, they weren't even in South Park anymore. The town was too small for a high school. No, Kenny McCormick was enrolled at NORTH Park High school. South Park-ians and North Park-ians do not get along, as a general rule. So the sudden decree that instead of the further away, but more amiable School of Middle High school, was no longer their high school. Some poor planning on the Mayor's part.

The gang was still together. Cartman was still a fat ass, but a tall fat ass. He still hated Jews, and poor people, and hippies. Still thought 9/11 was a conspiracy theory. He hadn't changed much. Still ragged on Kyle more than any of us. Kyle's still the same, though his hair's calmed down. He still hates Cartman. Still tries to make sure Kenny's taken care of. He's still afraid of his mother. And he's still the smartest person in school, and for that people try to beat him up. Try being the operative word. His super best friend makes sure that doesn't happen. He's changed a bit, Stan. He's tanner, and wittier. Better at sports too, though he was nearly a god at them back in elementary school anyway. He still has the biggest crush on Wendy Test-a-tit, who was an out and out lesbian by now. Somehow, Kenny had always known Bebe would make her come round. I don't think Stan notices Kyle's feelings, at least, no more than he did back in middle school.

They're kind of fun to watch, those two. Kyle: trying to be the good friend. Stan, who has no freaking clue that his super best friend has the biggest crush on him. Oh, and Stan made quarter back, again. He's friends with Lucas, the tiny Goth kid. They're apparently in the same creative writing class. Go figure. Kids like six years younger than us and in high school. The next Kyle or Ike Broflovski.

No, nothings changed. Kenny still died once a week on average, twice if Damien was feeling lonely. Damien went to the high school on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes on Wednesdays if his dad wasn't working him to the bone. Otherwise, the deaths were pure 'accidents', if you could call the North Park-ians antics accidents. Just two months ago they'd thrown a javelin at Kenny while he was waiting for Stan's football practice to be over. He'd promised to feed him. Well, he didn't need to eat that night, javelin through the brain made sure of that. Uncanny aim those track guys. They called it a freak accident, like the space station falling on Kenny back in the third grade, when he turned into a zombie and infected everybody.

Kenny missed that crap. The torturing of their classmates, or sneaking into George Lucas's house, or even when they used Kyle's dead grandma to scare the sixth graders, which didn't work, but was still fun. They met Kenny's future favorite band before he died, so he was happy. He missed Mr/Mrs. Garrison sometimes too though. He'd have so much fun laughing at the expense of his peers when they pissed that guy off. Anyway, Garrison was funny anyway: First he wanted to be straight, then he was gay, then he was a transsexual woman and straight again, then he was a lesbian, then he wanted a penis back and became a man again. His puppet scared the crap out of him though. Mr. Hat was a devil rapist, Kenny was sure of it. Garrison was still teaching at the middle school, trying his damnedest not to get transferred to North Park with his past kids. It seemed Principal Victoria followed them too, incompetent as she was. She was North Park High school's principal now.

No, not much had changed, except schools. The Goths still hung out and smoked behind the dumpsters all day, though the red one and the curly one sometimes locked the third floor boys bathrooms for a quick screw, Craig and his gang still hated Cartman, Tweek was still a spastic twitch, Token was still the richest kid in school, Gregory was still a pompous bastard, Kyle was still smart, Stan was still a jock, Cartman was still an ass, and Kenny was still poor and killed. Nope, everything was pretty much the same. For now.

Locker doors slammed needlessly, girls giggled incessantly, and slackers complained continuously. Yep, normal Monday morning. Now for the…. "Watch it, McCormick." Ah, right on time. Bowling jock's number 5, 6, and 2 all slammed their way past, pushing Kenny against the locker he'd passed by as they made towards their own lockers. Predictable. This whole school was so predictable. Bowling Jock number 1 always feigned sick on Mondays, (but didn't that make Tuesdays suck?), Lillian, the only cheerleader with an A-cup, would forget to stuff on Fridays, the science hallway always smelled like death on Wednesdays, and Mr. Reeves, the shop teacher, would always have a full bag of snickers for Tuesday credit recovery. Predictable.

"'Ey, Kahl!" Cartman was still a nasally bastard with an accent, even after eight years. Kyle sighed, as they all ignored Kenny. He didn't mind, being ignored meant he could swipe food without people noticing, because Kyle's mom always packed his lunch and there was always a rip in the bottom, and the granola would always fall out. Kyle never missed it, he hated granola. Something about a bad experience when they were younger or something. "Can Ah see your Math homework?" Okay, That was fail. And Kyle explained why. "NO FAT ASS! We don't even have the same freaking mass course. You're a freaking r-tard." Stan laughed. He always laughed, whether Kyle was making fun of Cartman, or Cartman was making fun of Kyle. He always laughed.

"Shut up Jewboy!" Cartman scrunched up his face like a child and his voice got higher, just like when he was trying to get his way. But really, Kyle was in Trigonometry, Cartman was in Algebra…1. He'd failed the first year and was taking it again. Even Kenny wasn't that stupid, or maybe that lazy. He sucked even more at math than Cartman was so it was probably the latter. Kenny leaned against Stan's locker, idly watching for Elementary chums. Pip scurried by, talking excitedly to some foreign exchange student, Wendy was flirting shamelessly with Bebe, Craig, Token, and Clyde were laughed as Tweek tried to grab his thermos from Craig, twitching and shouting, Timmy and Jimmy were being, well, Timmy and Jimmy. Damien was walking through the hallways unbothered, and a hell dog in his wake. Satan still didn't trust Damien up there alone.

No, nothing unpredictable ever happened.

Lunch went normally, everybody clustering into his or her own little groups for the daily slop. Kenny was caught between going and sitting with his friends and getting made fun of by the fat ass, or sitting outside, where the Goths were probably going to glare at him. Well, outside he might be able to catch a quick smoke before some teacher decided to go all high and mighty on him. And maybe Damien could convince the Goths to leave him alone anyway. Damien had joined them in middle school; once they found out he was the anti-Christ's son. I mean, that was the feather in their cap, or so the saying went. They were so opposed to conforming; they sat with the anti-Christ's son. How bad A. could you get?

Surprise, surprise, something unpredictable. Outside, in the dim sunlight that filtered through the leaves, sat Christophe Mollier, The Mole himself. Now, The Mole sitting out here wasn't exactly unusual, but the fact that he was there at all was. Christophe was a Mercenary by trade, so nine times out of ten he was out on some secret mission or resting because of one. So, finding the Mercenary sitting outside, dressed in traditional black and jeans that were probably blue at one point, cigarette hanging from his lips and reading some French novel was a pleasant change. Of course, the fact that he was sitting in his usual spot, a not so pleasant surprise.

Damien nodded to him as he passed the group before looking back to one of the curly Goth's (was his name Nickalus?) writing. The other two boy Goths (not including the tiny one) were sitting together, the red haired one with his back against the others chest. They were kind of cute in a demented way. Kenny sneered, blowing a kiss at the Goths, who scowled, giving him the bird in a fashion Craig would envy. Typical. They hated him. Kenny didn't mind. He walked straight on by and sat at the only other picnic table.

Christophe didn't notice him, pulling his cigarette from his lips and blowing a soft cloud up towards the sky. One good thing about Christophe was that; when he was out there, smoking or reading, not a single teacher dared go back there. They'd been threatened more than once with that deadly shovel, so they knew better. Heck, one of them was filing for a law suit (not that he'd win, Gregory paid for that guy's lawyer's, and he was nearly as rich as Token was) against the teenager for threatening assault with a deadly weapon. Kenny found it mildly humorous, but he found anybody getting mad kind of funny. Especially if it was over something small, like being threatened or something. Because fuck, when you die about a hundred times, getting upset over something so little as being threatened is really stupid.

Kenny pulled out the worn Camel cigarettes box he'd stolen from his mom's purse, and flicked the bottom, pulling up a cigarette and lighting the tip. He took a swift, deep drag, feeling the nicotine flood his lunges and the poison filling every pore. When you always come back to life, worrying about lunge or trachea cancer was pretty useless. The smoking thing probably came from his mom, who smoked like a fucking smoke stack since he started middle school. He profited, since she was drunk half the time, he could simply take the cigs from her purse, she never missed them.

The Courtyard was quiet, save for the soft mumblings of the Goths music, or the turning of a page from Christophe's book, or the occasional pull of breath from anybody in the area. Kenny watched the French boy, how his chocolate brown eyes scanned the page, or his mouth moved as he read, or how the crows' feet at the edges of his eyes became deeper when he blinked. He really was quite good looking, despite the fruity accent or his paranoia. Fuck, the French boy was nearly as bad as Tweek when it came to paranoia, but he had an excuse. His life was in almost constant danger, living life on the edge. Tweek was just an ADHD caffeine addict.

Kenny blew smoke towards the boy, inhaling half of it in again. Christophe peered up above his book, Kenny raised his eyebrows at him suggestively, not the least bit afraid of the mercenary. Christophe muttered in French before looking back at his book, taking a deep drag off his own cigarette. Kenny chuckled darkly under his breath. Maybe he'd bother him next. Not like he could kill him for good right?

"Christophe." Kenny greeted cheekily, leaning against the Mercenary's next-door neighbor's locker. He had his orange parka's hood pulled up, but unzipped, the fur tickling at the edges of his face. Christophe didn't even spare him a glance, closing his locker with a slam grabbing up his backpack. Kenny winced at the sound. Fuck that was loud, and Kenny was right next to it. "McCormick." Fruity accent still intact. He started off towards the courtyard, shovel strapped across his back, backpack clutched in one gloved hand. "Skipping first period I see." Kenny grinned, enjoying the flash of annoyance that crossed Christophe's face.

"You as well," Christophe snapped back as he exited the main building, walking into the courtyard. Nickalus and Lucas were already sitting near the kitchen back door, smoking up a storm. Christophe gave them a mild glare. Hadn't they tried to recruit him back in the seventh grade or something? Something about him telling off Cartman had caught their attention. The red haired one had a scar from when Christophe finally got tired of the annoying snot. Kenny chuckled under his breath. Fucking idiot. "What zhe fuck ahr you laughing about?" Christophe asked harshly, throwing his bag onto the bench of the picnic table. Kenny started, turning his attention back towards the taller boy. Had he always been that fucking tall? Probably not. Kenny just wasn't very observant. Kenny wasn't short but the mercenary was easily three or four inches taller. Fuck, and he thought he was tall.

"Not you, I assure you. That'd be suicide." Kenny grinned, sitting across from him and putting his chin in his hands cheekily. Christophe shook his head of scruffy brown hair before reaching into one of his many cargo pants pockets. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, hitting the edge against the table to pull one up in true Mercenary style. He put it to his lips before sitting down; pulling a lighter out of a different pocket (How many fucking pockets did he have anyway? And what did he carry?) And cupping his hand around the top, keeping the wind from it as he attempted to light his cigarette. Attempted being the key word. The lighter fizzled and flickered but eventually just sputtered out. "Sheet." He cursed before pocketing the Bic lighter.

Christophe looked up at the sound of a lighter flickering to life. Kenny held out the lighter, lit and waiting. Christophe gave it a suspicious look as Kenny pushed it forward even further, humming slightly in an unspoken question. Christophe grabbed hold of Kenny's wrist to hold his hand still before leaning forward and lighting the tip of the cigarette, simultaneously taking a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed.

Kenny tried to hide his surprise. Damn, Christophe's fingers were soft for a merc's, a bit calloused, and warm. Not Damien warm, he was inhumanly warm, but softly, almost welcomingly. Besides that, the physical contact in general was out of the norm. Christophe didn't like people. In fact Christophe fucking hated people. Christophe had a general hate for humanity, had ever since he was born for all Kenny cared or knew, and physical contact was one of the reasons. Hell, he didn't even kill (or so he had heard) with his hands. He used his shovel, and that was why the edge was stained so darkly, almost black (again, or so he had heard). Christophe actually initiating physical, skin to skin contact, for the fingers of Christophe's gloves had long since been removed, was unheard of, surprising. Not as predicted. Not unwelcome though. Seeing the mercenary as human was kind of nice.

Christophe let go as he sat back again, blowing the smoke from the corner of his mouth. He pulled his book out of his bag, turning to a page without a bookmark and starting to read, eyes scanning the page for his place. Kenny could tell he wasn't reading, because Christophe muttered when he read, often in French, even if it was an American Novel. Kenny lit his own cigarette. "Whatcha reading?" he was expecting a snotty comment. Christophe was sure known for them, along with dismantling and vandalizing school property. Kenny remembered the seventh grade during a mandatory theater performance, Christophe was sitting beside him and had, in the course of one and a half hours, dismantled the half desk attached to the seat, loosened the seat in front of him to the point of breaking, carved a French poem into the dismantled half desk, and written a French expletive in black permanent marker. Kenny smiled. Nobody even dared accuse Christophe, who, at the time, had gotten a habit of dragging his shovel when he was aggravated, an almost horror movie like habit, so Butters had been blamed.

Not that anybody cared. Nobody liked Butters. Kid was sweet though, so Kenny almost felt bad. "Zhe Stranger by Albert Camus." Christophe answered, giving him an annoyed look. "Why zhe sudden interest, Rat?" Ah yes, Christophe called him 'the rat' because he ate pretty much anything, and was small enough to squeeze anywhere. Kenny almost always countered with some other name, not always the same, but most of the time having to do with 'fruity Frenchman'. He couldn't seem to remember what he called him the last time. "Cus I think I may be falling for ya, frenchy." Kenny jokingly cooed, blowing smoke at the French boy's face. Probably not the best idea, but hey, Kenny wasn't the smartest shit around. Christophe closed his eyes, turning away from the putrid smoke. Okay, so Kenny probably was asking for it right about now, but 'it' never came. Christophe just pulled his cigarette from his lips and blew a puff of smoke right back, stinging Kenny's eyes and making him cough.

Kenny cussed up a storm and when he finally was able to see again, Christophe was already half way into the school. Kenny marveled, blinking at the boy's back. Why the fuck wasn't he dead yet? For sure Christophe would have killed him for that stunt. But no, he'd pulled the same stunt back. Kenny shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. This was going to be fun.

Fuck that hurt. That hurt like fucking hell. Damn. He could smell the blood that dribbled from his forehead and down his cheek, coloring his vision red. Leave it to North Park-ians to ruin a perfectly good day. Bowling jock number 5 laughed hoarsely as his buddies knocked the blonde boy to the ground. And he'd gone all day without dying too. Fuck. Kenny bit his lip, curling his knees to his chest and protecting his neck. These boys were bound and determined to beat the ever-living daylights out of him, and he could do nothing to stop them.

"C'mon, McCormick! Fight back!" The leader shouted, kicking at Kenny's shins. The immortal boy willed it to end, death, anything. He just wanted this to stop. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it. This was an almost daily occurrence, but, god fucking damnit; he'd been having a good day. Christophe had allowed him to bother him, even made conversation with him for a bit, he'd gotten to smoke whenever he wanted, and then these douche bags had to ruin his day. Maybe Satan's cream cakes in hell would make it better. The anti-Christ had a soft spot for the boy, had ever since Kenny helped him with his abusive boyfriend problem.

Suddenly there was a loud clang of metal against metal and everything stopped. "You beetches better move before I looze my tempeh." French accent? Had to be Christophe. The three boys quickly scrambled, stumbling over their own big feet. Kenny looked up, smiling at Christophe, who's shovel had left a deep indent in the locker he'd decided to scare them with. "You hurt my ears." Kenny pouted, sitting up and wiping at the blood on his forehead. Christophe shrugged, taking a drag off his cigarette, watching him disinterestedly. Kenny sat against the locker streaked with his blood, smiling up at Christophe. "Why'd you do that?" he asked after a bit.

"I know what death feels like." Kenny stared before laughing out loud. Christophe raised an eyebrow at the laughing boy who soon looked up at him affectionately. "I think I may be falling for you, Christophe Mollier." It was Christophe's turn to laugh, hand covering his mouth as he turned away. "Zhe cut seems to 'ave scramble' your brains." Christophe was barely smiling as he held his hand down towards the injured boy. Kenny grabbed the warm hand, pulling himself up before clasping his arms around Christophe's chest, burrowing his still bloody face into his warm shoulder. This felt nice. Very nice. Christophe awkwardly held his arms to the side before placing them against Kenny's back, not knowing what to do with them. Kenny laughed slightly before breathing in deep.

Christophe may never believe him, but Kenny meant it. But he knew for a fact: He'd fallen for him.


End file.
